Mirror Mirror
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: In the year 1270, Deckard Cain had encountered a group of heroes on the island of Bilefen. Fifteen years on, and with Leah taking up his legacy, she noticed that the heroes she was in the company of now looked quite similar...


**Mirror Mirror**

It was cool inside the caravan. Dusty, but cool. And to that end, it served Leah's purpose.

The roads of Aranoch were little more than dirt paths – markings for traders like the one transporting the group to Lut Gholein to ply their wares. By extension, they were like fires attracting moths to the flame, if in this case the flying insects were bandits and lacuni, and the fire was a caravan filled with riches. Over the six days that it had taken them to cross the desert, they had already come across five scenes of death. Only one of them had been with a destroyed caravan, the others having presumably been taken by thieves, or never featured at all. But all of them had at least one body at the side of the road. All of them having suffered a violent death, all of them in various states of decay, all of them having been picked apart by buzzards to some extent. Either through foolishness or bravery, souls had tried to cross the desert, and had paid he ultimate price for it. Men. Women. In one case, even a pair of children.

She could only hope that they'd all died quickly.

She didn't have much fear of that happening to this caravan though. If any bandits saw it, they might have been surprised at the sight of so many people guarding such a small transport. They might further deduce that the caravan had something worth stealing to warrant such a defence, but whatever the case, no attacks had occurred. The caravan had kept rolling on. Her friends, if she could call them such a thing, had alternated between resting inside the caravan, or walking outside just for the hell of it. She however, had spent almost all her time inside. Mostly reading. Sometimes reading.

Over the last few days, it had become all the more clear to her that she couldn't fill the void that her adoptive uncle had given to the world. She'd poured over manuscripts dating back hundreds of years, and had only understood half of them. But she could draw. Deckard had passed that skill onto her at least, and unlike her knowledge of demons, angels, and everything in-between, it was a skill that she could call herself reasonably proficient at. So as she sat here, leaning against the back of this rumbling box on wheels, she found herself having nearly finished her latest sketch, a stub of graphite making its way across the parchment. A parchment from which an image of her guardian, and the closest person to a father she'd ever known, looked back at her.

If, by some chance, she survived the trials that Tyrael had warned them about, she wanted to hold onto this one. Right now, the image of her uncle was fresh in her mind's eye. His life. His death. The look of peace upon his face before its cremation, lest he be raised in some mockery of life. But this was now. Now, twelve years on, she had trouble recalling her mother's face. Not that Gillian had ever been her real mother, or much of a mother at all, but she'd kept her alive at least. It had occurred to her that if time permitted, she might visit her in Caldeum, but would she even recognise her? Would Gillian recognise her? Was her foster mother even still alive? She didn't know. And at the least, she wanted an image of Deckard with her. An image that she'd nearly completed, as-

 **Clunk.**

Leah cursed under her breath as the wagon came to a lurching halt. That was annoying enough, but what was worse was that it sent her graphite marker across the page.

 _Oh come on!_

She got to her feet and looked at her – a line now ran across Deckard's face, and over the rest of the page. Bending down, she picked out a cloth from her satchel and began to rub – maybe she could salvage the image. Maybe not. If the latter, Light help her, there'd be hell to pay, and she wasn't talking about the threat that Tyrael kept going on about. She sat down, resting the parchment on the wooden board she'd used up to this point, and rubbed frantically.

"Leah?"

She barely heard the voice, so engrossed was she in trying to salvage her work. Work that she was beginning to see was beyond salvaging, unless she wanted her uncle to have some kind of scar in perpetuity. Which wasn't the worst blemish a man like Deckard Cain could have, but hadn't it been Sage Suek that said "what are pictures but the doorway to truth?" If not for them, what else could record the truth, of the world, and those who inhabited.

"Leah?"

She didn't even hear the voice this time. She just sat there, looking at the 'masterpiece' in her hands. Right up to the point when it was yanked out of them.

"Hey!" Leah got to her feet. "What are you-"

She trailed off, seeing the person in front of her.

"We've stopped," the visitor said. "Your presence at the evening meal is requested."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Clearly not, as your record of absences up to this point has shown."

"We'll be at Lut Gholein tomorrow, I can fill myself up there."

The visitor said nothing.

"In case you're wondering, I'm still not interested. I have…other things to do."

"Clearly." The visitor looked at the piece of parchment she was holding. "I'm sure that when we face Belial, the Lord of Lies will run away screaming when he sees a drawing of Deckard Cain."

Leah scowled at the demon hunter, even as the huntress smirked at the drawing. She could barely remember her name (Vella? Vallette? Val?), but of all the companions that she'd been thrust together with over the past two weeks, Leah had marked the huntress as being one of the least preferable 'heroes' to engage with. Here and now, she was reminded of why.

"What I do in my own time is my own business," Leah said eventually. She extended a hand towards the huntress. "And I would like my drawing back."

The huntress ( _Valla, that's right_ , she reflected) ignored her, still looking at the drawing. Leah could see something in her eyes (even beyond the unearthly glow) that she had some opinion, but what that opinion was, she couldn't tell. It galled her to realize that the opinion of a psychopath even meant something to her, but-

"In an ideal world, what you do on your own time would indeed be your own business." Valla tore her look away from the picture, instead looking at Leah (and still not giving it back). "But as I'm sure you've come to realize, the world isn't ideal."

"I've known the world wasn't ideal from the moment I could talk."

"Then we have something in common." Valla paused – it looked to Leah as if she regretted giving up that nugget of information. "But regardless, as you know the world isn't ideal, your business isn't just yours. Your business is the business of everyone around you."

"Your point?"

Valla handed the picture out. "That you should be busy reading rather than doodling."

Leah snatched the sketch from the demon hunter. She turned around and began to fold it.

"Are you listening to me?" Valla asked.

Leah said nothing. She bent down and picked up her satchel.

"In less than a week, we'll be in Caldeum, and if you think graphite will defend you from demons-"

"I understand what's expected of me," Leah said. She began to put the sketch inside the satchel as she turned to face the huntress. "But if you're suggesting that I spend every hour of every day pouring over tomes-"

"That's exactly what I'm suggesting."

Leah blinked – partly from the response, but mostly from how genuine it sounded. But not willing to concede the point, she said, "listen, I'm sure that's what you would do-"

"It is what I would do."

"But I'm not you," Leah said. "My life doesn't begin and end with killing demons."

"Begin? No. End? Quite possible."

"Well when Belial is defeated-"

"Maghda," Valla said suddenly.

"Pardon?" Leah whispered.

"Maghda," Valla repeated.

Leah said nothing. She just turned around and began putting the satchel back down in the corner.

"Perhaps for you, you think this ends when Belial is defeated," Valla said. "Perhaps for you, it does end. But in light of what the witch did to your uncle-"

"I'm well aware of what Maghda did to my uncle," Leah snapped. Having put the satchel down, she turned round to face the huntress. "Why do you think I'm drawing him?"

"To indulge some kind of inner need to wallow in self-pity and-"

Leah threw a punch. Not that it did much good, as in the space of a second, Valla grabbed her arm, and bent Leah over, twisting it.

"Let go!"

"I could break it, you know," Valla said.

"You're hurting me!"

"I wish I had the time or skill to draw pictures of my sister and parents, but I have better things to do."

"You're breaking my-"

"One more word, and I _will_ break it."

Leah didn't doubt that. But she wasn't going to be cowed.

"So, when you're back in Khanduras, and I'm back in the Dreadlands, and only one of us gets to indulge in the fantasy that all is right and good in the world, I-"

"You're just like the other demon hunter!"

A silence dwelled in the caravan. It occurred to Leah (as best as the pain of a twisted arm allowed for clear thought) that it was surprising that no-one outside had heard the ruckus. Or if they had, why they hadn't come running. But that line of thought came to a halt as she felt Valla release her arm from the lock. She stumbled away, nursing it, glaring at the huntress. The huntress who, right now, was giving her a bemused look.

"What other hunter?" Valla asked slowly.

"The other hunter. The one that Deckard met fifteen years ago."

"I wasn't aware-"

Leah opened her satchel and picked up her uncle's own sketchbook – sketches that went back over twenty years. Luckily, they'd been kept in order, so it didn't take her long to find what she was looking for.

"There," she said, handing the book to Valla. "This hunter."

Valla took it. Leah, having seen the sketch before, knew what the huntress would be seeing – a drawing of six heroes on the island of Bilefen. A group that her uncle hat met there fifteen years ago. One of which included a demon hunter that looked just like Valla.

"A hunter," Valla murmured, confirming the point. "A wizard, a crusader, a monk…"

"A barbarian, and a necromancer," completed Leah. "Not too unlike our current dynamic…abrasive personalities included."

Valla said nothing. She just stood there, looking at the drawing.

"He told me about that group," Leah continued. "No idea what they got up to after that, but-"

"I might have an idea," Valla said.

Leah blinked. "You do?"

"Hmm." She handed the sketchbook back to Leah. "Fifteen years ago I was in the Shassar Sea, training to be a demon hunter. My mentor and I, we encountered a group of adventurers just like that." She shrugged. "Or grave robbers, I suppose. They were interested in raiding a tomb. Never saw them after that."

"And the demon hunter? You saw her too?"

"I've seen many demon hunters. And chances are that your demon hunter from those days long gone is dead by now."

A silence lingered between the two of them. On one hand, Leah felt some sympathy to the woman (no, girl, she reminded herself – Valla was only one year her senior) in front of her – she could only imagine the life she'd led up to this point. On the other hand, Valla had been abrasive, standoffish, and aggressive. The hand of friendship could only extend so far if one's fist was closed.

"Alright," Valla said.

"Alright?"

"Alright," the demon hunter repeated. "I'll let you draw. It's your life. How badly you want to cling onto it is your prerogative. In the meantime, I'll be outside. Doing something constructive."

"Thank you." Leah saw the barbs among the flower, but she supposed she had to take what she was given. She watched as the demon hunter turned to head out of the caravan. Saw her reach the cloth that separated it from the desert outside, pause, and look back at her.

"For what it's worth…the drawings aren't too bad." Valla gave her a small smile. "That's one skill I envy you."

Leah said nothing. She'd given Valla her thanks already. She wasn't going to give her a second. So she stood there, and watched the demon hunter depart.

Then she sat down, got out another piece of parchment, and began to draw. Not of her uncle this time.

Someone else.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So,_ Diablo Immortal _is a thing._

 _If there's any cross-pollination between those that read the stuff I post for_ Diablo _and_ Command & Conquer _, you might be perplexed why I've repeatedly slagged off_ Command & Conquer: Rivals _, while I'm less aggravated towards_ Immortal _. There's actually quite a few reasons for that, but if I listed them all, the author's note might be longer than the oneshot itself. The most basic difference is that_ Rivals _felt like a punch in the face at the time, while_ Immortal _is more a "here's this thing you can have while we prepare the main course."_

 _But on the subject, anyone think it weird in-universe that Deckard Cain encounters a group of heroes in_ Immortal _and, fifteen years later, encounters a near-identical group of heroes fifteen years later? And no-one brings this up? Course we know the out of universe reason, but it did give me the idea to drabble this up. So even if_ Immortal _does turn out to be a pile of garbage, it got me to drabble up this at least._

 _Or maybe that's a bad thing too. I dunno._


End file.
